


Golden

by valancy_joy



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-20
Updated: 2011-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:18:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancy_joy/pseuds/valancy_joy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More a character piece than anything. Just moody golden firelight time for Arthur to be himself, and Merlin to let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden

_“Of course, Sire.”_

 _“Yes, my Lord.”_

 _“It would be my pleasure, your Majesty.”_

 _“And what would you have me do today, my Liege?”_

 _“By order of the King.”_

 _“Oh, Arthur…”_

It is this last, best use of his name that makes him sigh with pleasure. And not just because of what Merlin is currently doing with those nimble fingers of his.

“Say it again,” he whispers into Merlin’s neck.

And Merlin knows what he wants. He always knows.

And so as those fingers, those talented fingers grasp, and stroke, and twine, Merlin keeps up a constant chant of “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur…” into his lover’s ear. For here in the dim twilight of Merlin’s bedchamber, Arthur can forget, for just a moment that he is King. He can be simply a man called Arthur.

They don’t do this much anymore. There are too many responsibilities, too many others to consider. But from time to time, Arthur will knock on Merlin’s door, and with a familiar smile and a simple “I need you tonight,” he can find a small respite from the cares of his kingdom.

Things are easy here in the flickering candlelight, as he is pushed up against the bedpost and undressed. Soft, warm hands slide the robes from his shoulders, and slide their way underneath the fine linen of his shirt. The feel of Merlin’s hands on his skin comes with the buzz of his magic, like static electricity or being on the ramparts during a hot summer night with lightning flickering overhead. He loves to feel the thrum of it washing over him, doubly pleasureful with the skim of hands and lips across his bare skin.

Merlin’s right hand slips through his left, fingers twining, wrapping back around Merlin’s waist to keep them close. Merlin’s other hand is in his hair, and Arthur reaches out with his free hand to run his thumb across Merlin’s lips. He loves those lips, pink and plump. Those lips never pander to him. Never flatter in order to obtain some favor. But he knows the feel of them across his collarbone, his cheekbone, his hipbone.

They tell him things he needs to know, whether its battle strategy, or a whispered plea, a request, an “oh, yes, God, right, there Arthur.”

When they make it to the bed, they lie on fine linen, surrounded by golden draperies. They’re gold -- specially selected by Arthur -- that matches the glow in Merlin’s eyes when he’s doing something truly wonderful, truly magical, and they cast a warm glow across their bodies. Arthur thinks sometimes that this is the only place where he is truly himself. Here in this space he can taste and touch and revel in doing anything or nothing, just as he pleases. Merlin has known him long enough to know when he needs space and when he doesn’t.

And tonight, he’s tired of being catered to, of being watched from afar, his needs anticipated, with no way for him to say if the thing provided is not what he wants.

So as he looks down at Merlin, warm and smiling beneath him, he can’t help but smile back. This, this man, this thing they have between them is just for him. They don’t talk about it. They just know they will always be there for one another, no matter what. They can close the door, and pull the curtains and for a little while at least, find respite from their very busy lives.

He has a Queen, yes, and he loves her. But that too is a duty, no matter what else it is. He adores his Guinevere and is happy in her arms. But this is Merlin. He came first. And will remain to the last. Asking nothing, expecting nothing. Simply there by Arthur’s side. They fight, they do. And disagree, sometimes to the point of near violence. But Merlin does what needs doing. He does what Arthur needs him to do.

And so he’s got a special place in Arthur’s heart. A window to the boy he once was. He dreams of those days sometimes, those heady summer days when they’d slip away to roam the fields and forests, spending hours sometimes lying on their backs on a hillside, laughing at who found the oddest shaped cloud, or imagining what lay over the nearest mountain. Days where he could tickle Merlin till he cried, and then kiss him breathless, the taste of salty tears upon his lips.

Arthur knows now what lies over the mountain tops, and he is generally too busy to gaze at the clouds and look for dragons and butterflies. But on cold and lonely nights, there is always the sure and certain pleasure of being able to hold Merlin down on his bed, and still, even after all these years, kiss him breathless. Those, for Arthur, those are the golden days.


End file.
